wuding | Snowed In

"I enjoy being of use," he rasps out in between syrupy stretches and kicks of his legs, as he thaws beneath Wei Ying's working hand and the pervasive sheen of the honeyed oil. At first, there is no difference to his scars, his flesh merely put to task. Then, gently, Wei Ying's touch and kneading begins to incinerate what tension the winter's cold had woken, wherever its fingertips spread.

He moans, when Wei Ying dallies on a certain upper part of his shoulders, quite helpless. Then, behind himself, "Elders are easily pleased. Grateful. As children are."

Perhaps this is why Hanguang-Jun is so renown among their numbers, so ready to satisfy their needs. He understands them, without fears over his sparse communication. He seldom need wonder if he has stepped astray. It is almost as easy as interacting with Wei Ying.

"I do not resent service to them." He will offer it more often, gladly, once he has completed standing for Zewu-Jun — come that time when it may.

“I know you do,” he answers, enjoying the feeling of being of use himself. He doesn’t usually feel the desire to be useful to anyone outside their immediate family, but it’s something of himself that he can give to Lan Zhan and the kids. At times, when he’s feeling particularly idle and bored, he starts to devise ways he can donate his time to the rest of the sect.

“Thanks for letting me keep you today, Lan Zhan. I won’t stop you from helping them tomorrow,” he promises, digging in with a thumb to work out a particularly stubborn knot. He feels proud of himself for all the fun noises he’s pulling from his lover’s lips.

“You know, I don’t like thinking of you as something to be used, but you’re of use to the family every day. You keep us safe. You’re giving your brother the time he needs to heal and you’re giving Lan-shufu time to rest. We know he’d be standing in instead of you if you didn’t step up.”

"He answers duty," he agrees, and it is a point of high contention between them: Uncle has never meet an ethical high horse he would not climb, for all his sword might ever take him higher. At times, Lan Wangji permits himself the treacherous thought that his uncle gives hunt to the first challenge before him, only to justify his outrage that no other man stepped forth first.

This turn, Lan Wangji barred path, and he was permitted. Much as he made attempt to assist the household and was permitted. His loved ones ever make space for his own misplaced pride, and this he must thank them.

Reverently, he twists himself to chase the shadow of Wei Ying's fingertips as they cross his shoulders, to catch them in kisses only marred by the sheen of oils.

And in their wake, muscles unwound and back wholly lax, the last of the long tremors leaving him, he manages, "If you had wished us fled of Cloud Recesses a year ago, it would have been done, justly. But I am grteful you did not wish so."

He tilts the back of his hand towards Lan Zhan’s lips to accept the kisses. He can’t imagine the flavor of the oils he’s using would taste very good and he’s not about to taste it for himself. As hard as it is to believe, he has some standards for flavor.

“I don’t want to divide our family,” he says. Moving down from Lan Zhan’s shoulders to his mid-back. “Zewu-Jun and Lan-shufu included. So if the best thing we can do is help out here, then that’s what we should do.”

If only it were so easy to do what’s best for his own side of the family. Jiang Cheng doesn’t make it easy.

“Want to move to the bedroom after this?” He asks, leaning down so he can speak closer to Lan Zhan’s ear. “We wouldn’t want anyone -“ meaning, Lan Liang, -“To see you with your mouth full.”

Ah. A day of confinement, a rare opportunity to bed with daylight licking pale from a snowed-in outside. He hesitates, helplessly charmed, but also aware they have only just both exposed themselves to the elements.

Delicately, he turns only enough to close the breath of space between them, to nuzzle Wei Ying's cheek. To steal his affection.

"You craved lunch." Of course, Lan Wangji's own appetites can't be disputed, constantly hungering for Wei Ying, his flesh, his pleasure. He has only ever refused his husband when Wei Ying appeared intent to punish himself with Lan Wangji's own hand — and even then, his restraint was belated, grudging, threadbare.

"I want to bed you." Openly, plainly. He wants this man like he wants to breathe. "But we may eat first. To give my wife strength."

He’s drawn to Lan Zhan’s face, rubbing his nose and cheek against him before he steals a little affection for himself in the way of a quick kiss before he sits up again. Despite the majority of Lan Zhan’s tension and soreness being in his upper back, he wants to at least pass over his lower back too.

“I crave you, too,” he answers readily. His appetite for his husband’s touch is as healthy as ever, but he does feel hungry for food, too. He’d eaten a couple pickled vegetables straight from the jar when Lan Zhan was working on clearing paths in the snow, but he probably should have had more.

“Okay, let’s eat first,” he agrees after some deliberation. If Lan Liang wakes up before they get a chance to love each other, it will be a shame. But they always have tonight. “What do you want me to cook for us? We have fresh vegetables, but I don’t think we have any fish stored. Maybe I’ll fish tomorrow. I’m done with the cold for today.”

"Mushroom broth, rice, pickles, tofu strips." Does he ask too much? Perhaps. But he is still the second master of Gusu Lan, held in high comfort even during his travels. He cannot wholly surrender his desires.

And what of Wei Ying's strain? In the end, a proper wife should wish it done and prevail upon the deed. Did the Yiling Patriarch not commit himself? "Shall mind Liang as you cook."

As he stretches out to allow Wei Ying a final pass over his lower back, he instructs, "Eat healthily. I wish to enjoy my wife at least thrice tonight."

Certainly, if they are secluded, they must take advantage, and Wei Ying has ever wistfully expressed an interest in honoring their allowance for confinement. He must be bedded, served sweets, attended.

“Rabbit food,” he replies, lips threatening to smirk as he considers finding a rabbit to skin and cook for his meal preferences. He knows where they tend to nest and they come to greet him eagerly when he accompanies Lan Zhan to the clearing where they stay. He’s joked about eating them before but he knows Lan Zhan better now and realizes that it would be cruel to eat one of his pets.

One day without meat won’t kill him. If it were another situation, he’d whine and complain until Lan Zhan took him to Caiyi Town for a proper meal. But with the heavy snows, he’ll just have to deal with feeling less satisfied from eating.

“Three times?” He asks, grinning and rubbing his hands up Lan Zhan’s sides. It feels like a good time to finish the massage, so he looks around for the nearest cloth to wipe the remaining oils off of his hands. “I’ll hold you to that. Are you going to be able to keep up with me? We can spread it out if Lan Zhan needs time to recover.”

He slides to Lan Zhan’s side, taking the time to bend down and kiss Lan Zhan’s cheek and maybe his mouth too, if his husband turns his head just so. “I’ll cook as quickly as I can get away with.”

"No haste," he corrects, turning at the critical to meet Wei Ying's mouth and murmur his gratitude for the kindness of his husband's service upon Lan Wangji's resting back. Even now, some of the claws of the old cold linger, but their hold has lessened, and the evening promises better tidings than gritted teeth and misplaced steely discipline. "This grey Hanguang-Jun may now hope to keep pace with his young wife."

All hail household medicine. Evrn as he speaks so, he starts to rise seated, gathering the spumes of his silks to him, strapped back attentively against his body. And murmured, "I left heating talismans in the rabbit lairs a few winters prior. But we may help them with fresh food tomorrow."

A kindness, for all the creatures may fend for themselves — judt as Wei Ying sets to prove himself in the modest kitchens. For some time, Lan Wangji allows him command of the hot stove, only watching over Lan Liang's sleep, then congratulating his young son on the great achievement of his nap when he wakes. Inevitably, the infant has limited patience for the extended absence of his favorite parent and his obvious starvation, and so it is not long until, hand firmly lodged in Lan Wangji's for balance, he leads his father to his miscreant mother in a sullen trot.

Lan Wangji takes this time to announce him. "Apologies. Liang inquires if you may spare a bowl of rice."

“Okay, okay, I’ll make it properly,” he gives in and gets to his feet. He pinches one toddler toe between his fingers as he passes by, keeping the touch light enough that it won’t wake him. He still wants more time with Lan Zhan without their son keeping them company, but babies drift in and out of sleep periodically.

He talks while he cooks, mostly to himself but he’s never unhappy if Lan Zhan chimes in. Mostly, he talks about helping his shijie when she cooked for the family. He’d cut vegetables and meat for her or stir her hearty stews. And maybe it’s with her in mind that he reigns in his impulse to make their meal infernal. He can hear her voice instructing wisely that spice can always be added but it can’t be taken away.

With the pickles already brined and the tofu strips searing quickly, dinner doesn’t take a lot of time. He’s nearly finished when Lan Zhan follows their little tyrant to the small area they use as a kitchen when they can’t or don’t want to go to the main kitchen for their meals.

“One bowl of rice coming up,” he announces with a grin that makes Lan Liang light up. He takes the lid off the pot and checks the consistency, finding it perfect - Lan Zhan isn’t the sort to do things imprecisely. He scoops a serving of rice and hands it over to Lan Zhan. “Wait at the table and I’ll be right there!” He just needs to serve the rest of the food, season his own with ample amounts of spice, and put it on a tray. “I made it how you like it, Lan Zhan. Bland and mild, but you can eat some of mine if you want some flavor.”

Bland and mild should injure his pride, but he accepts the descriptors gratefully, rushing to take the bowl, Liang trailing after him as if a moth to a flame. He leads them steadily to the low table, collecting two empty bowls and chopsticks along the way and waving them behind himself to signal to Wei Ying that the tableware has been cared for.

Then, gently knelt, he sets their table.

Lan Liang is appropriately patient and well-behaved, emulating his father's seating and waiting until the bowl is set in his vicinity, and he can fit a spoon in his pudgy hand, as if a weapon. He slams it in the dish, rice splattered, while Lan Wangji coerces him into the proper forms of leading a spoonful in his little mouth. At first the baby fusses, the meal hotter than anticipated. Then, after Wangji blows it cold, he is content, and Lan Wangji alternates bites of his own and allowing the child his share.

He waits until Wei Ying comes to them with his bounty of a meal, interest kindled. "You have outdone yourself, beloved."

Doing things the way Lan Zhan likes makes him feel good in a way he never would have considered when he was younger. He likes to see his husband and son smile and enjoy the small amount of work he put into their meal. He knows Lan Zhan will take it on himself to make sure Lan Liang is fed without the added spice of Wei Wuxian's bowl.

"It was because I was thinking of Shijie while I cooked," he says as he sits down in front of Lan Zhan and to the side of Lan Liang. "I wanted to make something that she would. It's simpler than most of the things she cooked, though."

He takes his chopsticks in hand and grabs a few strips of reddened tofu and puts them on the bed of rice in his bowl. The spice will disperse over the rice like this and make eating the rice itself more enjoyable. He waits until Lan Zhan is ready to take his first bite to do the same. He makes an appreciative noise and nods his head. "Shijie would be proud," he says with a grin, "And Jiang Cheng would call my portion poison because he can't handle as much flavor as I can."

He takes the time to help Liang with another bite of rice while Lan Zhan eats some. Liang babbles with his mouth full and spills a little bit onto his chin. "It's forbidden to talk during meals," he teases and thumbs at the spilled rice, pushing it back into Liang's mouth.

Forbidden, but Lan Wangji seems unwilling to dispute young Liang's outburst, careful only to wipe his chin and to present the next spoonful of rice for the young master's consideration. The child hums, displeased with the proposition until Wangji lingers and parades the offer. In the end, the infant concedes, leaning in to take the rice mouthful in one gulp, then grinning excitedly and batting the table with his small fists.

Of course Lan Wangji can only set aside a balanced bowl of rice doused in mushroom broth, tofu strips crowning it, so the ingredients may marry and combine — then, attend his child with further rice offerings.

"She would be proud." He agrees, for all it is not his place to make the commentary. Still, he defends it. "Lan Liang loves this dinner better than the one if the kitchens. Jiang Yanli yearned to tend a family. Wei Ying succeeded."

And this, perhaps, will give him comfort above all.

And would she be proud to see her brother settled comfortably as a wife and mother? He knows she would be happy for him and that she’d be the best aunt his kids could possibly have. Who cares if he’s a retired war criminal? Who cares if he isn’t earning a living doing some masculine profession? As long as he’s happy, she’d be happy, too.

“I wish she could have met her nephews,” he says with a sad sort of smile. “They would have loved her immediately and she’d love them right back.”

He realizes he’s been holding a strip of tofu for a while, so he brings it to his mouth. He feels oddly content. Usually when he thinks of his sister for too long, his heart aches. There’s still a little aching there, but there’s a pleasant fondness, too.

“I’ll write to Jin Ling later,” he says after swallowing his bite of food. “And to Sizhui, too, even though you already let him know we’re safe.” Sizhui might have mentioned the weather to Jin Ling, so it would only be right to let him know they’re safe, too. That, and thinking of what his sister would have wanted always leads him to Jin Ling’s welfare.

"They will be pleased. Sizhui guards your every letter."

Jin Ling. Lan Sizhui. The next generation of largely blissfully ignorant youth, immune to the traumas of a war they never waged. The trials of their fathers have so far been the worst of their lives, and Wei Ying, a doting steward, only seeks to insure that reality lingers.

Lan Wangji nods, only fleetingly capturing Wei Ying's hands in his own to bring it to his mouth and kiss the back of it, capturing motes of the spices liberally sprinkled in his husband's bowl. No matter. At times Wei Ying deserves affection he does not request.

After, he devotes himself to his meal, silently only nodding along when Lan Liang coos along in perfect gibberish, as if they are sharing a perfectly sensible conversation. Then, settling his chopsticks on his bowl at the end, "My wife dallies."

He doesn’t get the impression Lan Zhan’s exaggerating how precious his scattering of letters sent are to his first son. That boy is as pure and wholesome as his aunt had been and it warms his heart knowing how much he means to him. How much he means to all of them.

“I was just thinking,” he explains, picking up his bowl to shovel a couple bites of rice into his mouth. He’s only half chewed the food by the time he starts talking again. Surely, he’s a bad influence on their son. “About family and things like that.”

And he feels happy.

He lifts the bowl and shovels the remainder of his food into his mouth. It’s a little too much for one mouthful, so he covers his mouth with one hand as he works it down with his teeth and strategic swallowing.

There, his happy beast, his grateful and formidable husband. He eats, and it is as if Lan Wangji's own belly fills out, warmth effusive. He cannot help himself: fills Wei Ying's cup and adds fresh tofu strips to his spouse's bowl, and there is nothing that can give him more gladness.

"Have you her writings? Allow me to learn." He has picked up base skills and the necessities to prepare a few choice dishes that Wei Ying enjoys, but Lan Wangji can always deepen his learning. If mastery of spices and flavour brings out Wei Ying's laughter, it is worth the pains of experimentation.

"We may raise this second son in your way." More tolerant, if not perhaps even desirous of spice than Lan Sizhui, let alone Lan Wangji. Wei Ying requires an ally in their household, and Lan Liang already reaches out a trembling hand toward his mother's bowl and the cheeky bounty of his tofu.

He lets Lan Zhan refill his bowl without complaint. He’s satisfied, but not overly full. He reaches for the spice mix he’d brought with him to the table, but ends up pulling his hand back at the last moment. Lan Liang is reaching for his food and he thinks maybe the little tyrant will like a little flavor with his meal.

“I made copies for the kitchen, but I kept the originals,” he says with a grin. He hasn’t had very many meals made by his husband’s hands, but he’s liked the ones he’s had. He’d even been surprised to find out Lan Zhan had been the one to make it because it tasted as good as any restaurant’s dishes. If anyone can master his sister’s recipes, it’s his husband.

“In my way?” He asks, already cutting a few smallish pieces of tofu from one strip. The pieces aren’t big enough to be a choking hazard and they’re flavored by spices left behind from his first serving. Not too much, but it will be more flavor than Lan Liang’s used to. He dabs the bite of tofu bits on the rice first before offering it to his son. Lan Liang eats it trustingly, but his face scrunches up when the spice hits. It must be instinct since Liang opens his mouth more while he tries to power through some of his mother’s fair.

He loves his son, but he can’t hold back his laughter at that reaction. It’s better than when A-Yuan got some of his food and started crying, so maybe they’ll be successful cultivating his appetite for heat.

“His face is all red! Maybe we should get him some milk?” Do they have any milk? He can’t remember if he’d seen it earlier that day.

"No milk," he murmurs over the table, as if he speaks a conspiracy between them, and his young son's precious ears should not be tarnished with the revelation. Their child has progressed past the need for daily milk, and the nursemaid insists on steering him toward solids. Milk is a crutch now, to be reserved for times of sickliness.

And so, Lan Wangji takes over, clutching his child close to his chest and kissing the crown of his head, as Lan Liang seems on the cusp of eruption, carefully pondering whether to give in or survive his outburst. He moves past the point of tantrum, while Wangji hums patiently in his ear, steadfast. "Hush, Liang, hush, my dragon. You have done well."

The infant's face, truly, is unspeakably red, and he seems to somehow know the culprit for his vast misfortunes, stare sharp and unkindly and dead set on Wei Ying. Grimacing, Lan Wangji finds himself at a loss for whether to apologise for his husband's laughter to his son, or for Lan Liang's hostility to Wei Ying.

"Just more rice, perhaps."

Somehow, seeing his beautiful baby boy look so aggressive just makes it funnier. He knows Lan Liang will forgive him for his betrayal eventually, but he does manage to calm himself after a few moments. “Here,” he says, standing and going to the door. He doesn’t plan on leaving, so he doesn’t grab anything warm to put on. The door is only open long enough for him to grab a handful of snow.

“Here, this might help before the rice,” he says as he kneels down next to his husband and son. He offers the snow for Liang to take. “I’m sorry, little one,” he says while he waits for his son to decide whether or not he can be trusted.

Either way, he’ll put the rest of the handful of snow in Lan Zhan’s empty bowl before it drips onto their floor more. “I didn’t think there was that much spice left in the bowl,” he says in his own defense.

The snow, thankfully, seems to attract Lan Liang's attention, less for its culinary prospects than its iridescent luster against the nearby flame. Lan Wangji clicks his tongue, first warning the child against rubbing on the powder, before permitting him to swipe a finger through the cold and bring it up to his little mouth, where all things that are unattended are destined to go —

And explode into tears, the child's meager defenses clearly unprepared before the icy chill. He is all red fury, kicking and wailing and informing the highest authority of the Heavens of the great indignity and injustice that have both befallen upon their foremost young master, Lan Liang — and pointing throughout a still snow-licked finger at Wei Ying, to accuse he who conspired against him.

For a moment, Lan Wangji is aghast; for another, concerned; for the third, as Lan Liang shows the start of tiring himself out and likely leading into a nap, resigned. He could draw only one conclusion: "Believe I am now the favored parent."

He encourages Lan Liang to try the snow thinking the coolness will feel good to his spice-warmed tongue, but he becomes aware that he’s misjudged his son’s tolerance. “I thought it would help,” he insists, reaching across the table to try and soothe Liang. His hand gets slapped away.

“That’s not fair,” he complains and sits back down on his side of the table. “I was trying to make things better and he’s acting like I made it worse. He’ll forgive me eventually, right?”

There are still several strips of tofu in his bowl including the other half of the one he’d cut up for Liang to try. “It’s not that hot, is it?” He asks, picking up a full strip and holding it out towards his husband. There’s always the snow if he’s truly misjudged how spicy his own food is.

The ultimate sacrifice, the test of every marriage: withstanding Wei Ying's offering, painstakingly vibrant and red throughout. He flinches, inevitably, but resigns himself to a final concession before his spouse's curiosity: with a trembling hand, he claims a tofu strip, delicately wiping it on the bed of rice below, before grudgingly submitting it into his mouth.

He chews at length. Chews and chews and chews, the burn starting idle on his tongue only to assail his throat. He chokes, flushed, waving away any inquiries after his health before Wei Ying must voice them and dragging a fingertip of snow into his mouth to calm his ardor. Throughout, Lan Liang watches in rapture.

"It is... a tribute to Wei Ying's palate," he manages, eyes lightly wetting in silent admission that Lan Liang might have been lightly tormented, but Lan Wangji remains the weakest link of their household.

It’s all the proof he needs to know that he had truly misjudged and condemned his son to a fiery betrayal. He strokes Lan Zhan’s cheek once he’s sure he’s alright. “I thought I made it milder than usual,” he sighs thoughtfully. “I think A-Liang managed to tolerate it more than you, too. Think you’ll be able to kiss me?”

He drops his hand to stroke Liang’s back, rubbing little circles there to soothe him now that the toddler tolerates his touch after seeing Lan Zhan suffer the same fate. He still only gets to see the back of his head, though.

“Maybe he’ll forgive me after he has a nap,” he suggests hopefully. He’s already feeling jealous that Liang’s replaced him with Lan Zhan as his favorite parent. He’ll just have to make it up to the little guy and wiggle his way back into good standing.

He picks at the last of his food, soaking everything he can in red before eating it. He even dips the pickles in the residual spice at the bottom of his bowl. Once he’s finished, he stacks the dishes on the tray but doesn’t move to clear the table right away. “I don’t think I can eat another bite. I guess Lan Liang would rather have you watch him, so I’ll… wash the dishes while you get to enjoy our little emperor’s favor for a little while.”

"...no," he whispers gently, but firmly, hand reaching out to cover Wei Ying's and tipping Lan Liang inward until the child's curiosity consumes him enough to join his own palm over the mound. "Wei Ying cooked our meal devotedly. I shall clean. Liang will supervise."

There is no world in which his husband, unexpectedly battered by their son's shallow rejection, will be consigned to the tasks of a servant after already toiling to set food on their table. It would disrespect him, Lan Wangji's own framework for their household and any decent education they hope to impart to Lan Liang over husbandly responsibilities.

With that, he rises, displacing the child to sit him at Wei Ying's right and begin clearing the table for the small kitchen enclave, where bucket water still suffices and he starts cleansing each bowl with a drenched rag. They've water too for their necessities, for drinking, for Lan Liang's various rinses and for their baths — but he should replenish their supplies with morning.

"Lan Liang." This, sternly, behind himself, where the child is drawn to attention. "Your mother cares for you each day devotedly. Sullenness is unfilial."

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